Hi there.
Yesternight1 at ye olde woodshoppe, I was a little out of my element. There’s always this fundamental struggle between my need to try new things and my intense dislike for feeling like a complete novice, as if my demonstrated ineptitude in one realm was going to spill over into the rest of my life, and then I become an all-around loser2. There’s a lot to pay attention to in woodshop, what with all the grain patterns and warp and squaring up and measuring twice, cutting once. On top of that, you have to make peace with these giant machines that have two primary goals, neither of which have to do with actually cutting wood so much as injuring you: they like to kick back boards at alarming velocities, and sever your body parts. Sometimes, they even do both at once. The end result of this awareness is that you’re intimidated by them, much the same as when you’re standing at the firing range with a large weapon against your shoulder and a tiny metal chicken way down there at the other end, taunting you. Taunting you! Whew. I’m getting ahead of myself here. So, yeah. There I am at woodshop, being nervous about cutting shit, because it’s new and scary. And there’s the instructor, peering over his reading glasses at me, just waiting for that finger to come off so he can fail me. Not that we’re being graded, but you know. I simply cannot be a failure at woodshop. Also, I suspect he doesn’t like me very much. Like maybe he thinks I’m just a woodshop tourist and not the hardcore craftsman that I really am. Maybe he thinks I’m being too social with my fellow students when I should just be standing there quietly cringing at the sound the miter saw makes when that old lady uses it wrong, over and over and over. Maybe he doesn’t like our recurrent joke about ‘wood problems’3. Maybe I ask too many questions. I definitely ask too many questions, but I’m all about knowing what I’m doing, and more importantly, knowing why. Maybe he doesn’t like the looks of my push-stick4. I don’t know! I just don’t know. But it worries me, to the point that every time he tells me, “Good job,” I hear the rest of the sentence he forgot to say out loud: “you stupid girl.” Sigh. It’s hard. However, I do have all the pieces cut for my final project. It’s a half-round table, and my cats are just dying to topple it. I can’t possibly sign off without mentioning the worst mixtape ever contest again. Your entries are killing me. Keep them coming. Bye!Jenni
1 Craig pointed out that yesterday was Hug a Pervert Day, which means that the Michael Jackson incident is entirely apropos.
2 I know what you’re thinking. Shut up.
3 I’m definitely not the first one to notice that woodshop is rife with sexual euphemism.
4 I call it my push-serpent5, because that’s what it looks like. I’m glad I waited to glue on the googly-eyes, though.
5 During the rest of the week, my push-serpent lives in the back seat of my car. This morning in the driveway, I wondered what someone peering into my vehicle would assume about me based on the contents of the backseat: push-serpent, safety goggles, a packet entitled THE JOINTER, a trucker’s road atlas, and a yoga mat. Also, there’s coffee splashed on my dashboard. I suck.